


Of Stars and Sunflowers

by DistractedSiren



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst, F/M, Hanahaki Disease, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-08
Updated: 2019-10-16
Packaged: 2020-11-27 21:17:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20955050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DistractedSiren/pseuds/DistractedSiren
Summary: When Claude starts hacking up flower petals, he knows his time is short.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hanahaki Claude grabbed my heart and wouldn't let go. This is based off of a lovely piece of art by @smallestbrown on Tumblr/Twitter. Check out the link to take a look! Thank you so much for your support and inspiration!
> 
> And thank you all for reading! <3 <3 <3

**Inspired by [Hanahaki Claude by @smallestbrown!](https://smallestbrown.tumblr.com/post/188166113499/yes-i-have-other-work-i-should-be-doing-yes-im)**

* * *

There are flower petals on his sheets when he wakes up the morning after the disastrous ceremony in the Holy Tomb.

Claude is confused by them: he likes flowers well enough but he doesn’t keep any in his quarters. He always forgets to water them and anyway, he likes them better when they’re growing and not stuck in some vase. So he stares at the few petals that are resting on his pillow and wonders where they came from—and then the cathedral’s bells ring and he scrambles out of bed to get dressed. They’re soon forgotten as he joins the Golden Deer house in preparing Garreg Mach for battle.

The day is long and frustrating, and he isn’t feeling quite himself, but he chalks that up to the sudden stress they’re all under. Besides, he can’t afford to get sick now; Teach needs him, and so do the rest of the Deer. There’s a tide of panic rising all throughout the monastery, and the only thing that keeps it at bay is firm, decisive leadership. Claude can help provide that, it’s a particular strength of his.

But when he at last retires to bed, he’s so exhausted that the room is spinning. He nests himself among the books he never gets around to putting away and curls under his blankets. He closes his eyes and hopes whatever this weakness is, a night’s rest will dispel it. Coughing a little, he falls asleep.

* * *

There are more petals in the morning. Maybe there’s a pressed flower in the pages of one of these books. But that doesn’t make sense—the petals on his pillow are _fresh._

_I don’t have time for mysteries like this, _he thinks as he brushes them to the floor. Not so long ago, he might have been utterly fascinated by the random appearance of fresh flower petals, but there’s not enough time to prepare Garreg Mach for siege as it is.

Still…he plucks one up off of the ground and slips it into his pocket. It can’t hurt to find out what type of flower it is, after all.

* * *

It takes him longer than such a simply inquiry _should _take, but almost all of his waking hours have been spent with Teach preparing the Deer for the Empire’s pending assault. So it’s more than a week later that he finally finds the correct bloom in a thick tome detailing Fódlan’s flora. He’s sure it’s the right flower almost instantly, as now he’s got quite a large sample size to work with. A week has left him with a good-size handful of the petals. He ought to have recognized them easily, but they don’t have them in Almyra and the mountains around Garreg Mach are too cold for them. Plus, he’s only seen them in vibrant yellow, and the ones he’s been finding (and, more confusingly, coughing up) are different. These are more of an orange color. Still, even he can’t mistake them for anything else now.

They’re sunflower petals.

_Sunflowers are typically given as symbols of long life, _he reads in their entry in the botany book. Other terms jump out at him too: _loyalty, passion, strength. _And another word, one that had been pestering him for a few days now, scratching at the edges of his consciousness.

_Love._

He coughs again and catches another couple of petals in his hand. And suddenly, he isn’t just confused anymore. He’s afraid. People don’t just _cough up_ flower petals. And even though they apparently mean long life, this can’t be a good sign for his health.

He snaps the botany book closed and buries his hands in his hair. First Rhea’s baffling behavior in the Holy Tomb, then Edelgard’s betrayal and now the looming siege…it’s already starting to feel like the cards are being stacked against him. But this? He really doesn’t need this.

He hears footsteps from the direction of the doorway and looks up, absently sweeping the flower petals out of sight while at the same time he plasters a confident smile on his face. His shoulders relax a little when he sees it’s Teach. Of course she’d come looking for him. She knows he’s been distracted, and he knows she’s noticed that he’s been a little under the weather.

“Claude?” she asks, coming closer. Her voice is low and calm, but he can hear the concern underneath. It warms him a bit, eases some of the tightness in his chest.

“Hey, Teach,” he replies.

“It’s late. You should be getting some rest.” She settles into the chair next to his and her eyes roam his face. A little frown is pulling at the corners of her lips, and that makes him feel absurdly guilty. He shouldn’t cause her unnecessary worry, not when there are plenty of necessary ones flying around.

He jumps a little when she reaches up, but all she does is lay the back of her hand, cool and soft, against his forehead. Her frown deepens slightly.

“I think you’ve got a fever. Not a bad one, but…you should see Professor Manuela tomorrow. And I’m going to personally escort you to your quarters so you don’t get distracted and wander off.”

He waggles his eyebrows at her even as he gets to his feet. “Why _Teach_, how delightfully forward and shockingly inappropriate of you.”

She rolls her eyes and gestures for him to walk ahead of her. “I’m ordering you to get some sleep, von Riegan. I need you and your schemes.”

He coughs again. More petals in his hand. He shoves them into his pocket and heads for the door before she can see.

“I suppose if it’s a direct order from you, I don’t really have a choice,” he says, but his brain keeps replaying the way she said _I need you._ And when he does finally enter his quarters and climb into bed, those words follow him into his dreams. So do the sunflowers.

* * *

“Oh,” Manuela says as she consults one of her medical journals. “Oh _dear.”_

Claude is on one of the beds in her infirmary. At her dismayed tone, he folds his hands under his head and stares up at the ceiling. He’d guessed it the first time he coughed up a flower petal. He’s _dying, _and Manuela is about to confirm it.

“Give it to me straight, doc.” His smile is bitter.

“It’s…well, it’s a disease known as _hanahaki. _It’s rare.” She comes over to his bedside and checks his temperature again, then examines his lymph nodes and peers into his throat. “White magic can’t help you, and medicine has proven ineffective.”

“So how long do I have?” Claude asks. “Before I drown in flower petals, I mean.”

“That’s…well, that’s precisely what _will _happen, should the disease progress to its final stages.”

“Oh?” He perks up a bit. “So you’re saying there’s a way to prevent that from happening.”

“Yes.” Manuela’s lips curl a little as some of her concern is replaced with curiosity. “Claude, this disease is caused by unrequited love. Not a crush, mind you, but real, passionate love. There are several options: you may fall out of love, which would resolve the problem. Or the person you love may come to love you in return and cure you, though obviously there’s a deadline on that because your symptoms will worsen with the passage of time. Or, if it gets bad enough, there’s surgery. We can remove the flowers…but your love will disappear too.”

“_Disappear?_ How is that even possible?” he asks. _And who the hell am I in love with?_

Manuela shrugs. “I’m afraid your condition is rare enough that we don’t fully understand how it works yet. And the surgery is dangerous, which is why I wouldn’t recommend it until hope seems lost. We just haven’t been preforming them long enough to—the survival rate of any surgery is low and—well. I digress. But tell me…who’s your lucky lover?”

Claude blinks at her. “You just handed me a potential death sentence and you want to talk about my love life?”

Manuela waves a hand. “You’re young. Chances are that in a few months time, your love will fade and the condition will clear up. On the other hand, if you know who it is you love, you may be able to get them to fall in love with you. It’s all part of your treatment.”

He opens his mouth to tell her that he doesn’t know—and then the door slams open. It’s Hanneman.

“Manuela, Claude—we’re under attack. If you can, get to your stations and prepare for battle. The Imperial army is here.”

* * *

Later, the fact that he was in the infirmary when Edelgard’s troops began the assault will haunt him.

If he had gone to Manuela when she’d told him to, he might have been with Byleth when the fighting began in earnest. Maybe she never would have gone over the edge of the cliff. He rejects any notion that he might have gone over with her. No, if there’s one thing he’s certain of, it’s this: if they had been together during the fight, he never would have lost her.

* * *

The coughing gets worse and brings up more and more petals as the months stretch on. After destroying Garreg Mach, Edelgard rips through the weakened Kingdom and intimidates a few of the Alliance lords into turning a blind eye to her aggression. Through it all, Claude helps his grandfather with round table conferences that grow increasingly frantic. A year disappears while he works in Derdriu, trying to keep the Alliance together though he has no real power yet.

He coughs up his first full sunflower in the second year. His grandfather is fading fast. The stress of the war is killing him faster than the healers anticipated. Now Claude _does _have power, but it isn’t enough to keep Count Gloucester from going his own way.

_Edelgard is making a fool out of you, _he thinks as the count leaves the round table in a huff. Then again, she’s made fools of them all.

He wishes for Byleth. He knows now she is the person he’s in love with. The knowledge came almost a year too late. And now another year is passing in fear and blood.

When the entire flower comes up later that evening, it’s painful enough to leave him shuddering uncontrollably in his quarters. He stares at it and tries to tell himself that Byleth is dead, that there’s no point in being in love with someone who has passed beyond his reach. He all but begs himself to forget about her, or to seriously consider the surgery. The problem is, he doesn’t believe she’s dead. He is not a deeply spiritual or religious man, but he truly thinks he would somehow have _known_ if she’d died that day—that he would have been able to feel their bond being severed forever.

Instead it seems as though she’s just on the other side of a door he can’t open. That’s maddening enough, but whenever he examines this feeling too deeply, it also gets physically uncomfortable: he coughs and hacks as petals tumble out of his mouth.

As the trembling stops and his body calms down, soothed by the regular intake of oxygen, he cleans up any signs of his floral disorder. Then he sits down and forces himself to think about politics. After all, his grandfather is dying. The Imperial border is quiet, but only because Alliance nobles like Gloucester have rolled over and shown Edelgard their bellies. Only two major Houses—Goneril and Daphnel—seem solidly of the anti-Imperial faction. And it’s up to him to somehow keep minor lords like Acheron from outright betrayal.

He can do this. He must do this, or give up on ever seeing his dreams come true. He just wishes he wasn’t so _alone._

* * *

His grandfather dies the following year, carried off presumably by pneumonia, though Claude can’t help but feel that stress has played a fatal role as well. Now there is no one else to defer to, no one to be the figurehead while he pulls the strings of Alliance government. It’s all up to him, and every lord and lady in every territory knows it.

How long before Edelgard tests his mettle as a leader? She has her hands full with the front lines in the Kingdom, but now would be an ideal time to start encroaching on Alliance territory as well. Lorenz’s father certainly wouldn’t hinder her if she rushed up from the Airmid River to the south.

His study in the Derdriu palace is a whirlwind of parchment and books. There’s a corner dedicated to his experimentation with toxins and his engineering of clever little devices of all sorts: anything from models of siege machinery to every day items with hidden compartments or special tools for decoding cyphers. There’s less and less time for such hobbies, however, as the endless administration work piles up around him.

_Teach would say I need to find a trusted advisor to help with all this, _he thinks as he reviews Acheron’s request for more lands to feed his army. _She’d be right, but who can I trust?_

Before he can give the question any serious consideration, a page knocks.

“Your Grace, Lady Hilda and Lady Marianne have arrived.”

“They have?” He scrambles away from his desk—the action makes him cough, and he isn’t sure if he’s fast enough to block the accompanying tumble of flower petals from sight. If the page notices, he says nothing. “They could have at least written.”

“We _did_ write, oh Great and Powerful Duke Riegan,” Hilda’s voice replies. He walks to the doorway just in time to see her sink into an exaggerated curtsey, “but _clearly_ you were too busy to respond to a couple of old friends.”

In spite of himself, Claude laughs. It’s been too long since he’s seen any of his fellow Golden Deer, and Hilda isn’t one to let him wallow. Beside her, Marianne smiles at him a little shyly.

“What Hilda means to say is, it’s good to see you.”

“It’s good to see you too, Marianne. Come on, let’s head to a more comfortable room and I’ll order some tea.”

* * *

Ten minutes later they’re all settled around a table with a pot of steaming tea waiting to be poured. Claude does the honors himself, trying to ignore the way Hilda’s eyes seemed to be trying to penetrate his skull. To stall the flood of questions he knows will soon be coming his way, he starts with one of his own.

“What brings you two to Derdriu?”

“Well, I’ve never been and so we thought—” Marianne starts, but Hilda cuts her off.

“We were _worried_ about you. Holst says you haven’t been yourself.” Hilda’s look is shrewd and uncharacteristically serious, and Claude has to make an effort not to shift away from the concerned curiosity in her gaze.

“I know what week it is,” she adds. “The anniversary is coming up, and—”

He shakes his head. “You’ve got it wrong, Hilda,” he says as patiently as he can manage. He doesn’t want to talk about the fall of Garreg Mach. He knows what she’s going to say. But her little fist comes down on the table with surprising force, and her eyebrows draw together.

“_Stop it,_ Claude. Stop avoiding it. I don’t want to think she’s gone either, but it’s been _years._ No one has found her. And yes, I know about your search parties. Marianne and I…we wept, okay? We mourned. Sometimes we still weep. When I think of—“” Hilda chokes off, tears springing to her eyes, and Marianne reacts with quick reflexes honed on the battlefield. She scoots closer to Hilda and takes the girl’s hands in her own, murmuring softly.

Hilda holds her hands tight but her eyes are locked into Claude when she continues. “We all miss her, Claude. But we’ve all had to face the truth. If she hadn’t died, she would have come back to us by now. I know you know that, deep inside. It’s time to let her go.”

A pain is building up in his chest and the urge to cough is so strong that his hands are trembling with the effort of repressing it. The accompanying rage that comes with that pain isn’t new, but he is tired of pretending that he understands Hilda’s line of thinking. What is so terrible about having hope? About believing in a woman who absorbed the power of a dead goddess and carved the sky in two? Why is he the only one that has never given up?

_Because you’re the only one that’s in love with her, _a voice inside him says.

“No, it isn’t ‘time to let her go,’ not for me,” he snaps at Hilda. “And if that’s all you came here to tell me, you wasted a trip because I _won’t_ give up on her.”

“Claude,” Marianne says. “If it’s affecting your health, and you’re ability to lead the Alliance...”

He stands up, his chair clattering back as he straightens to his full height.

“I’m afraid I’ve forgotten an important meeting,” he says, colder than he means to, but he’s about to be sick and is desperate to escape. “Enjoy the tea. I’ll find you again later.”

“Wow.” Hilda is glaring at him, trying to mask her hurt with anger. “You’ve really surprised me, Claude. And not in a good way.”

He ignores this barb—he’s heard so much worse in his life—and flees. Somehow he makes it to a water closet before his knees give out. He crashes to them on a hard stone floor, the pain from that almost insignificant next to the agony of the hacking, choking waves of sunflowers and blood that spill from his mouth and nose.

By the time he’s done retching, he’s curled up into a ball on the floor. His body feels hollow and shaky, and for a moment or two he’s too miserable even to think. He just feels: feels the ache in his lungs and the deeper, sharper pain in his heart.

_She’s alive. You’d know if she wasn’t. You just need to hold on._

It’s a mantra he’s been chanting for months. For years. Sometimes it’s all that gets him to his feet every day. He holds onto it, and onto her, and somehow drags himself back into the world to fight again.

* * *

Graciously, Hilda and Marianne appear to have decided to chalk up his bad temper and worse manners to the strain of running the Alliance. But while he’s always known Hilda is more perceptive than she likes to let on, it’s Marianne who surprises him this time. The night before the pair of them are due to leave, she knocks on the door to his study.

He lets her in with a smile that he hopes is charming, but feels rather flat even to him. If she notices, she doesn’t say anything. Instead, she wanders deeper into the room, stepping lightly to avoid piles of books.

“You’re ill,” she states without preamble. “Very ill, I think, or you will be very ill soon.”

“Marianne, it’s sweet of you to be concerned but…it’s under control,” he says, though the effort it took for him to widen his smile probably made it ghastly to behold.

“Will you die?”

“Not for a while yet. I promise.”

Marianne’s expression fills with an understanding so poignant that Claude feels his own eyes sting.

“Soon, then.”

He gives up the ghost and drops his casual façade, his shoulders drooping as he does so. “I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe not.”

“Have you spoken with a doctor or a healer?”

“Just Professor Manuela.”

Marianne’s lips part on a gasp. “You haven’t seen her in _years._”

“She was very clear about the prognosis. Just not as clear about the timeline. I get the feeling it varies depending on the patient.”

“And what was the prognosis?”

This time Claude’s smile is wry, and he shakes his head at her. “Ah, I’m afraid that’s a secret I’m not ready to share.”

Again, if Marianne is offended, she doesn’t show it. She reaches out and touches Claude’s hand instead. “At least…is there a cure? Something to be done?”

“There are…options,” he replies carefully. “None that are exactly feasible right this moment.”

She nods. “If I can help at all…”

“I appreciate it. Truly.”

Before either of them can figure out how to continue the conversation, a servant knocks. “Your Grace, there has been an incident with a trader from the Sreng region, and the magistrate is requesting your presence in the audience chamber.”

Claude’s gaze meets Marianne’s. “Duty calls,” he says with a shrug, sounding almost like the cocksure student he’d once been. She gives him a small smile.

“Take care of yourself, Claude,” she murmurs before seeing herself out. Something heavy settles onto his shoulders when she leaves, but there’s work to be done and no one else can do it. Indulging in another bout of loneliness will have to wait. He stands and makes ready to face an angry audience.

* * *

His days become a blur of responsibilities, sunflowers and blood. None of his contacts, both in Fódlan and far beyond its borders, ever find a hint of Byleth. His disease rages on, weakening him and making his thoughts blurry when he most needs them to be sharp.

He’s careful to keep his condition from the other Alliance nobles. The situation in his region is precarious enough. Should the less trustworthy lords get wind of his flagging health, a full-fledged rebellion would flare up.

But that leaves him rushing out of conferences or staggering into the nearest empty room all in order to hide his affliction all too often, and he knows It isn’t helping his reputation as a leader that just shrugs off the concerns of his territory. His hands shake as he cups them over his mouth and nose, catching the bloody flowers as he reflects on the unfairness of that sentiment. How much more could one man do? In this situation, without something to rally around, how is he supposed to do anything _but_ hold the line?

And he’s so sick. Perhaps they’d cut him some slack if they knew. He’ll never tell them, of course. He hasn’t even told his fellow Deer, so he doubts he’ll ever bring it up with say, Count Gloucester. But sometimes he wishes that they’d see how tired and ravaged he is _all of the time_ and give him the benefit of the doubt.

_That’s weakness talking_, his father’s voice chides. _You know better than to make such frail excuses._

His fist clenches around red-stained sunflower petals.

“Alright,” he croaks out loud to the empty solar, his voice hoarse from his latest attack. “But no more talk of weakness when I keel over dead. I think that’s only fair.”

Great. Now he’s talking to himself. He really needs a break.

* * *

Only a few days remain before the appointed date of the reunion. Claude’s attacks still come with alarming frequency, and there’s more blood amongst the petals than there had been in previous months, but he feels much more like himself the closer the millennium festival gets. He hardly ever even brings up whole blooms anymore, which is nice, though the fits never truly cease.

His wyvern is already packed as the sun climbs out of Fódlan’s Throat. He’s aware that his plan to return to Garreg Mach is not a popular one. Frankly, he doesn’t care. _None_ of his plans have been particularly popular, and he’s tired of worrying about it. He made a promise and he’s going to keep that promise. That’s all there is to it.

Okay, maybe it isn’t as simple as that…but he won’t change his mind. Byleth’s shadowy presence on the other side of that invisible door feels closer than ever.

_Hold on, my friend. I’ll see you soon._

He double checks his saddle bags, ensuring there’s enough food to share, and then he climbs onto his borrowed wyvern. He chokes on a few more petals and wipes away the blood. Even one of his fits can’t seem to drag his mood down. A light touch of his heels sends the wyvern soaring into the cool morning sky, and he leaves Derdriu behind with no regrets. Nader and Judith can hold the Alliance together for a few days. And when he brings Teach back, they’ll understand why this little field trip is so important.

He lets the petals trail out of his fingers as they gain altitude. The blood is harder to get rid of, but he barely even notices. She’s closer than she was before, and that knowledge spreads through him like the sweetest melody.

Five years he’s survived. Five long years with his illness making it harder and harder for him to do his duties, five years where the criticisms of his leadership have grown louder and louder. No one knows what it’s cost him, but he’s made it. Against all odds, he’s made it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I PROMISE to finish "Catalyst," I just couldn't stop writing this!
> 
> Next: the disease rages on.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The door behind him opens quietly. He doesn’t need to look to know it’s Byleth. No one else here gives a damn what happens to him.
> 
> “Claude?” Her voice is almost hesitant. She’s concerned for him. “How are you feeling? Everyone was worried when you left so suddenly.”
> 
> “Teach, ah—” He coughs again, quietly, but there are no petals this time, just the taste of blood and pollen. He stares down at the mess on his desk and his fingers curl tight around a handful of petals. His fist is shaking. “Thanks for checking on me,” he says without turning. “I’m fine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for any spelling mistakes or other errors. I haven't really fully edited this, I was just too excited to share it and I wasn't going to get a chance to do so tomorrow! Over the next few days I promise I'll clean it up as needed.
> 
> This has been amazing to write, the response has absolutely blown me away, and I am so grateful to @smallestbrown for sharing her amazing artwork and encouraging me to write something to go along with it! Thank you!!

Claude isn’t all that surprised when the other Golden Deer don’t come to the monastery on the day of the millennium festival. Garreg Mach is a bandit-infested ruin, and class reunions probably don’t seem too important to people that have been fighting for their survival for nearly five years. He doesn’t blame them, though he wishes with a pang that he could see them all again, all together in the same place, even if it’s just for a couple of hours. Leading the Alliance through war so far has been a lonely affair, and there are so few people around him he can trust.

He climbs the steps in the Goddess Tower as dawn breaks over the mountains. The wind and birdsong almost make the scene idyllic, but he knows that there are desperate men in the town below, dangerous men. That takes some of the sweetness out of the view, but not all.

_My friend, _he thinks. _I’m here, like I promised._

He stands at the window and breathes in, hoping to feel like a student again for just a moment. The sun is climbing higher, touching the mist in the valley below with golden fingers. Somewhere not far from where he’s standing, an owl gives a sleepy hoot. Despite the presence of a fracturing world around him, he feels as though his soul is at peace for a moment.

That’s when he hears the footsteps.

It could be one of those bandits, he knows. There’s also a small chance that one of the Deer has come after all. But some instinct tells Claude that it’s neither. And when the footsteps stop in the direction of the doorway and a small gasp breaks the silence, he knows for sure.

He’s already beaming as he turned to face her. His friend, his professor. His Byleth. Love and relief wash over him. They’re together again at last.

“You overslept, Teach,” he calls to her, unaware of how right he is just yet. He moves forward to greet her properly, and for the first time in years he feels…

He feels _healthy._

No sudden fit of coughing overtakes him. No flowers force their way out of his esophagus. She smiles up at him as he reassures her that he’s never given up on her, and he feels like he could take on Edelgard’s army by himself.

Hope dares to rise in his chest. Has her heart changed toward him in in the last five years? Has she given him two great gifts: a cure for his disease and, infinitely more precious, her love?

That rising hope is what makes it so shattering when, just after they’ve shared the rations he’s brought with him from Derdriu, his illness strikes again. He excuses himself and heads back into the Goddess Tower, his measured steps turning into a run as he hits the stairs. He finds a smaller chamber off of one of the lower levels of the tower and locks himself in. Then it comes: orange sunflower petals, and larger pieces of the full flower. Blood comes with them, dripping onto the floor between the partial blooms. It takes several minutes for the attack to ease, but he’s far more hurt by the death of that too-brief hope.

She doesn’t love him. She probably never will.

_Giving up rather quickly, aren’t you? _his mother’s voice asks in his subconscious. He can picture her in his imagination, one eyebrow arched over eyes as green as his own. It brings a dry smile to his lips.

_You mean I should woo her? _he asks her, knowing full well it’s his own subconscious he’s speaking with. Still, he doesn’t mind a bit of motherly advice in this situation, even if it’s imaginary.

_You can lose nothing by trying, except perhaps a bit of pride._

He has plenty of that to spare, he thinks. Maybe with time and effort, he _can_ win Byleth over. He cleans up the mess he’s left on the stone floor as best he can, then checks his clothing for any tell-tale signs of blood. By the time this work is done, he feels a little less as though the ground has dropped out from beneath his feet.

_There’s still time_. It will be his new mantra, lending him strength when his own flags. In the meantime, there are bandits in the home they once shared, and that is an insult not to be borne.

* * *

The Empire moves against them more quickly than Claude would have liked, but the force that marches on the semi-rebuilt monastery isn’t large, and their general is young and not nearly experienced enough to be a match for he and Teach.

“I’ve set up a fire trap in the ruins of the town,” he tells the Deer. “We’ll lure their forces right into it, and then press our advantage. Those of you that are fighting on foot, stay well back. We’ll need you to make sure none of the Imperial forces get into the monastery.”

He’s surprised when things more or less go to plan. The Imperial forces are decimated between the fire and the unstoppable martial force that is Byleth on the warpath. He’s even more surprised when no one seems to notice how he hacks and coughs when the smoke gets bad, something that would be normal if it weren’t for the sunflower petals that flutter to the smoldering ground afterward.

* * *

Manuela and Hanneman return with the Knights of Seiros. He’s grateful for their reappearance as they desperately need every ally they can get, but he’s less appreciative of the assessing look Manuela gives him. Last time they saw each other, he was a boy with a potential death sentence. Now she frowns as he forces down another cough, tasting the bitter pollen and silently cursing her for noticing

She doesn’t approach him right away. She doesn’t even approach him before Ailell, probably because that plan was supposed to go off without a hitch. There was a hitch, of course there was, but they’d returned to Garreg Mach with Ashe, Judith and the Daphnel soldiers they so badly needed, so it had been worth the fight.

No, it’s while he’s preparing their forces to assault the Great Bridge of Myrrdin that Manuela comes to him.

“You’re still sick,” she says. “Very sick. You hide it well, but I know better.”

“I don’t mean to be rude, Professor, but I’ve got a lot to—”

She waves away his dismissal and stalks into the cardinal’s room where he’s been reviewing a huge map of the Gloucester and Ordelia territories. She snatches up his wrist, removes his glove and counts his heartbeats, then she peers into his eyes and presses on a lymph node or two. He scowls at her but silently consents to her manhandling. She won’t be refused, and even if he ducks her examination this time, she’ll only hound him until he gives up. Perhaps she can at least do something about the pain.

“You’ve been in this state for five years?”

Claude nods and refuses to meet her gaze. Manuela pinches his wrist.

“Are they dead?”

“No,” he says. She’s gloriously alive, and he will move heaven and earth to keep it that way, no matter what Edelgard throws at them. Every scheme, trick, or tactic he can devise will be to help her—and all his Deer—get through this war.

“Then _why_ haven’t you told them?” Manuela asks, incredulous. “Do you _want _to die? Or am I mistaken and you _have_ told them? Because if you have and they’ve rejected you, I would highly advise getting surgery before you get any weaker.”

“No, I haven’t told her.” Claude tugs his wrist from her grasp and pulls his glove back on.

“Ah, _her_ is it? Hilda?” Manuela guesses.

Damn his loose tongue. “No. She’s a good friend, but…no.”

“Marianne? Leonie?”

“I’d really rather you didn’t—”

“Lysithea? _Me?”_ She gives a silly little giggle when she mentions herself and bats her eyelashes at him. He ignores her and starts rolling his maps. It’s his silence that probably condemns him more than anything else, because all at once Manuela’s eyes grow huge.

_“Byleth,”_ she murmurs. “Of course, _of course._ Oh, Claude…”

The sympathy in her voice grates and he turns from her, already coughing again. The petals feel feathery in his mouth, and suddenly he’s hacking so hard he has to drop the map and grip the edge of the table to stay upright.

When he finally regains control, he feels the soothing warmth of Manuela’s white magic easing his battered throat and lungs. He sucks in a clean breath and is surprised by how long it’s been since breathing itself hasn’t been painful.

“Thank you,” he mutters. One of the maps is ruined. Petals are stuck in the blood he’s coughed up onto it. He grimaces, feeling a bit disgusted with himself.

“Why haven’t you told her?” Manuela asks, her voice quiet.

Maybe he’s tired, maybe he’s weak. Maybe he’s kept the secret for five fucking years as it is, and he wants to get it off his chest.

He sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “Because she’s _Byleth_,” he says at last. “And what do you think she’d do if I told her? She’d either pity me because she doesn’t feel the same way, which would be unbearable, or she’d try her best to _make _herself love me. And if it didn’t work? If I died anyway?” He shakes his head. “No. I will not do anything that makes her feel in any way responsible for my death. She almost had to kill Ashe a few weeks ago, and she may have to kill her other students in the battles to come. I don’t want her to think for a _moment_ that she’s killed me too.”

“What about the surgery?”

He shakes his head again. _Maybe she’ll learn to love me, _he thinks, but even if she never does, he’d rather die with love in his heart than live without it. It’s a dramatic sentiment, but he’s a dramatic guy. He doesn’t know how to be anything else.

Manuela lets out a long, slow breath. She looks a little stunned at his willingness to suffer on as his unrequited love kills him by inches.

“You really must be in love with her,” she says in tones of awe and longing. “Oh, it’s just so _romantic!_ But this can’t be how it ends…it would make for the most heartbreaking show. It’s a story made for the stage, but—but—”

“But the ending sucks.” Claude laughs drily. “Yeah, that occurred to me as well.”

“Claude…” Manuela touches his arm. “To be loved, the way you love Byleth…that’s a powerful thing. Something a lot of people would die for the chance to experience. I truly hope that she realizes what’s right in front of her.”

“I forbid you to tell her,” he replies. His voice is stern, but a sad smile tugs at his lips and touches his eyes. “Really, Manuela. I don’t want to put this burden on her shoulders. We’re fighting for our survival. That’s enough for her to be worrying about. And I don’t want to see sadness in her eyes every time she looks at me.”

“You could be giving up your best chance for survival.”

He doesn’t care. Byleth isn’t obligated to love him back, and he won’t force her to try. Besides, he’s not afraid of death; he’s flirted with it far too often before to be frightened now. He only hopes that before this stupid disease gets the better of him, the war will end with an Alliance victory.

* * *

There’s a foul taste in Claude’s mouth that, for once, has nothing to do with his illness. He’s already given orders for the bodies of Acheron and his men to be washed, prepared for burial and returned to their families. He is now drafting dispatches which he hopes will ensure the Imperial dead will be returned to their homes as well. It’s grim work, but he forces himself through it, stopping now and then to cough into a handkerchief.

He tries to find the fun-loving schemer persona he always used to such effect, digging deep inside of himself for a glimmer of mischief. It seems an impossible task tonight. His heart is too heavy.

A knock sounds at the door and he shoves his handkerchief deep into one of his pockets before assenting to the disturbance. He isn’t all that surprised when Byleth walks in.

“Are you sure you want me to come with you to Derdriu?” she asks. “The Alliance nobles have probably never heard of me, and Rhea didn’t leave anything official to confirm my appointment as her successor.”

He gives her a wry grin. “Of course they’ve heard of you, my friend.”

“But who would have—oh.” She tilts her head a little as she looks at him. “_You_ told them about me.”

“I did, yes. So did Lorenz, Lysithea and Hilda. The Victor family business did its part to spread the Legend of Teach as well. Little joke there: we _may_ have semi-deified you. It seemed appropriate, what with you absorbing the goddess into yourself and all,” he tells her.

“I’m not sure how much good I’ll do. I don’t even know what my duties _are.”_

“Don’t worry. By the time we get there I’ll have your grand speech all worked out. Or,” he adds with a wink, “you could always stare directly into their souls like a vengeful god and see if that works.”

She lifts and eyebrow and he huffs a quiet laugh, one she joins in after a moment. It still surprises him when she laughs: it had been a rare, precious gift when he’d been a student. She indulges in it more often now. It’s like watching a flower open toward the sun.

“You’ll be great, my friend. I promise,” he assures her. She nods, then hesitates a moment before coming closer. She’s scrutinizing him carefully, the same way she had years before sending him to seek help from Manuela.

“You look exhausted,” she says. He curls his hands into fists but forces a smile onto his face.

“Nasty side effect of fighting a war, I suspect,” he tells her, striving for nonchalance. “A relaxing flight to Derdriu ought to do wonders for my constitution.” He knows it won’t, but he will get to spend a few hours with her pressed close, and maybe that’s selfish but he can’t think of anything he wants more than some quiet time spent alone with the woman he loves.

She thinks this over and nods. “In that case, I’ll see you in the morning,” she replies, and bids him goodnight.

Later, he dreams of flying through a blizzard of orange sunflower petals.

* * *

“Nervous flier, my friend?” Claude murmurs into Byleth’s ear as she presses back against his chest, no doubt seeking the comfort of something solid to hold on to.

“I know she won’t let us fall,” Byleth replies, bravely stretching to give Claude’s wyvern a pat, “but all the same, I’ll be happier when we’re on the ground.”

The wyvern makes a sound that is surprisingly like a chuckle as Claude grins and gathers Byleth close. The feel of his arms around her seems to ease some of her tension, and he fights the urge to tuck her under his chin or kiss the top of her head.

“I’ve got you,” he says. He’s greedy and he wants more, wants to kiss her here amongst the clouds, but he forces himself to be content with this, with her warm and safe against him as they soar ever eastward. It feels like home, and what could be better than that?

* * *

The Roundtable conference is messy. They always are, but Acheron’s death has scared the remaining nobles. The fact that he was a traitor to his sovereign duke was secondary to the fact that he’d been snuffed out so close to his own territory, by citizens of his own nation. They view Claude with renewed suspicion, no doubt wondering if Acheron’s ‘murder,’ as they insist upon calling it, was premeditated.

“No,” Claude tells the assembled nobles, struggling for calm. “I told you—he was in league with Ladislava, the Imperial commander in charge of holding the bridge.”

“Still, you must admit it’s _convenient,” _Gloucester argues. “You never liked the man.”

“I distrusted him. That isn’t the same as disliking him. I barely knew him.”

This doesn’t win him any points with the group, it only reminds them how very new to Leicester—and Fódlan—he is.

Beside him, Byleth clears her throat. “I can confirm Acheron’s treachery. We assumed he understood that we were aiding you in securing your territory, Count.” Her impenetrable eyes rest on Gloucester. “That a minor lord so close to your lands decided to attack us from the rear as we did so doesn’t reflect poorly on Duke Riegan. Rather, it makes me wonder how Acheron knew we would be storming the bridge at all.”

Claude has the extreme pleasure of watching Count Gloucester’s face pale under her scrutiny. He sputters, glances around the table at the other lords, and then says, “Surely you are not accusing me of betraying—”

“Of course not,” Byleth replies. She is the picture of serenity. “Just as I’m sure you never meant to cast aspersions on us. We are all allies here, are we not? United under the Crest of Flames and acting in the name of the holy goddess Sothis?”

Count Gloucester snaps his mouth shut and nods. “You’re right, of course. Forgive me, my lady Archbishop.”

He’s been so masterfully outmaneuvered by her that he doesn’t speak again as the meeting continues, and that is a miracle in itself. No one bothers to remind him that Byleth has never been officially recognized as the new archbishop, least of all Claude. He just enjoys the silence.

They’re nearing the end of the session when the attack comes. He’s been arguing with a representative of House Ordelia about pulling troops away from Fódlan’s Locket to support their march on Fort Merceus when the first symptoms arrive, and his chair clatters backward as he shoves away from the table and rushes for the door without a word. The entire table is stunned into silence as he slams through the door and bolts down the hallway to the room he’s claimed as an office.

He makes it, barely. His shoulders are heaving with the effort of holding in the powerful convulsions of his chest. As soon as he relinquishes control, all he can do is grip his desk and ride the waves of his disease. It goes on for a long time, blood splattering over his paperwork and petals cascading from his parted lips. Half a bloom comes up, then an entire flower. Still heaving, he bends forward over the desk and tries desperately to pull in some oxygen.

He’s left trembling, gasping for air, when the attack ends. He’s still on his feet, but his legs feel like jelly and his eyes are closed while he regains control of himself.

His attacks are getting worse. There are three entire flowers on his desk, and dozens of petals. There are larger pieces of full blooms mixed in as well. It won’t be long before the damn things suffocate him.

The door behind him opens quietly. He doesn’t need to look to know it’s Byleth. No one else here gives a damn what happens to him.

“Claude?” Her voice is almost hesitant. She’s concerned for him. “How are you feeling? Everyone was worried when you left so suddenly.”

“Teach, ah—” He coughs again, quietly, but there are no petals this time, just the taste of blood and pollen. He stares down at the mess on his desk and his fingers curl tight around a handful of petals. His fist is shaking. “Thanks for checking on me,” he says without turning. “I’m fine.”

“Claude—”

“_Please,_ my friend,” he interrupts, his already hoarse voice cracking on the word friend, “make my apologies to the lords. I’ll be there in a moment.”

He can hear her pause, knows she’s shifting her weight from one foot to the other as she debates coming to his side or doing what he requests. He must sound desperate, because she decides to do as he asks.

“We’re going to talk about this,” she tells him before she leaves. He chuckles darkly and wipes the blood from his lips.

“I’ll look forward to it,” he replies, though this is the last thing in the world he wants. The door closes behind her, and he’s alone.

* * *

The Roundtable conference sucks up so much of their time and energy over the next few days that their conversation is delayed, though on the flight home there’s no way to avoid it. They’ll be alone together for hours, with the wind and sky ensuring the utmost privacy.

He doesn’t know how he’ll answer her questions. He doesn’t want to lie to her, but he doesn’t want her to live with the knowledge that he’s dying of unrequited love of her. So far, no brilliant schemes or turns of phrase have come to him, and now he’s out of time.

They’re set to depart on his wyvern after he sends a final, coded message to Nardel. It’s more or less his will. Another has already been sent on to Almyra, but Nardel will be the one poised to take control in Derdriu should this blasted disease kill him. Then he’s to pass Alliance leadership over to Lorenz and head back to the safety of their homeland.

Feeling thunderous and altogether far more mortal than he’d like, he climbs up into the saddle behind Byleth and quietly asks the wyvern to take flight. The wyvern responds with a small noise of joy, happy to be airborne again. Claude envies her this simple delight.

To Byleth’s credit, she waits for a while to begin asking questions. She must feel how his shoulders begin to relax and his agitation ebbs, carried away by the fresh air and sunshine. Pressed so closely together, she can’t help but notice when his body begins to lose some of the tension he’s carried with him for days.

“I heard you coughing and choking, and there was blood on your sleeve the other day.” She takes a breath, then asks, “You’re very ill, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” he says, grateful she hadn’t seen the flower petals.

“Dying?”

“There are no guarantees In this world, my friend,” he replies. “But no. Not if I can help it.” It’s not even a lie. Not completely.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” She doesn’t sound hurt, but he can’t see her face and therefore can’t tell for sure.

“To avoid this very conversation.” He gives a rueful laugh. “Besides, you’ll want to pull me from the front lines, and I can still fight. You need me.”

“One soldier more or less doesn’t—”

“C’mon Teach, I’m no common soldier and we both know it.” He pokes her in the side. “Besides, you should be nice to me. I’m sick.”

She scoffs and he can practically hear her eyes rolling. It makes him grin.

“If you have an episode while you’re in battle…” she starts, but she must feel him shaking his head because she interrupts her own thought to let him speak.

“Don’t worry about that. Wyverns are extremely smart. If anything happens to me in battle, Mahsā here will carry me out of danger.” He pats the animal, then gives her neck an affectionate scratch. “She’s saved my pathetic hide before.”

“I don’t like taking such a risk. Not with you.” She glances over her shoulder at him, worrying her lip slightly. His heart thumps a little harder in his chest and he tightens his hold on her.

“So you’re saying I’m important to you,” he teases, leaning in close to her ear. She swats his arm gently.

“You know you are,” she replies, and he can see the curve of her cheek coloring just a little.

“Ah, Teach—I’m blushing. I really am. But don’t worry, I’ll be fine.”

The knowledge that he’s far too sick to make such assurances occurs to them both, but neither says it.

* * *

Byleth had wanted to keep Claude out of their assault on Fort Merceus, but his presence is essential. It had taken a long time to convince her of that, and he’d had to explain rather more of his plan than he’d wanted to, but he’d managed at last. The prize for his victory is that he now marches toward the fortress with his soldiers, his ears pricked for any sound of pursuit.

A low rumble makes him smile to himself. It’s all going to plan.

* * *

Nader’s ‘attack’ grants them entrance to the fort. Claude can hear the Death Knight barking orders as he and a select force of Almyran fighters begin to sweep across the battlements to the northeast. On the other side of the fortress, he catches glimpses of Byleth leading the other Deer toward the center of the fort, where the Death Knight is waiting.

This won’t be a problem. Not even the sight of Linhardt makes him falter. He steers Mahsā over to the man, keeping a wary eye out for magical attacks.

“You don’t want to fight, Lin,” he calls. “I’m not asking you to turn your back on your father or Edelgard, but if you retreat now, we won’t follow.”

“You found the professor?” Linhardt calls back.

“She found us! It's a long story. She’ll be happy to know you’re safe. Just stand down and let us pass.”

“If I do that, you may as well kill me yourself. Hubert won’t let me live long once he finds out.”

“You could join us,” Claude coaxes. “We’re rebuilding Garreg Mach. When we win peace, you can spend all your time napping and reading books in the library. We’ll even give you Hanneman’s office.” The old man won’t like it, but if it brings a former student back to their side, Claude is certain he’ll capitulate.

“Oh, very well,” Linhardt agrees with a sigh, “but only if Caspar comes along as well.”

“Climb on then.” Claude swoops low and reaches for Linhardt’s hand. “Let’s go get him.”

Byleth has beaten him to it. She and Caspar are circling each other warily, each reluctant to strike first. Claude lands nearby. He can see that Caspar is pale and his hands are shifting restlessly on the hilt of his axe, but there’s a determined glint in his eye that makes Claude grateful he’s brought Linhardt along.

“Don’t be foolish, Caspar. You can’t prevail against the professor,” the mage calls down from the back of the wyvern. “Perhaps the Alliance has more to offer us.”

“But—our fathers—”

Linhardt sighs. “How long are you going to toe the line out of fear, Caspar?”

Caspar stares at the man, clearly trying to figure out exactly what Linhardt means. Then he shakes his head like a dog shedding water and drops his axe.

“I don’t understand what you’re saying, Lin…but if you think this is what’s best, it probably is. Alright, Professor. I suppose we’re signing up with your side.”

Byleth smiles as Claude slips out of Mahsā’s saddle. “She’ll take you out of the fortress. There’s a reserve army waiting just a couple miles away. Mashā, take them right to Judith, understand?”

The wyvern takes off and Byleth turns to him, but shouts interrupt whatever she was about to say.

“Claude, Professor!” Leonie is waving frantically. “The Death Knight is retreating!”

Byleth turns and spots the general galloping away. Then she spins back to glare daggers at Claude. “Stay alive,” she orders him.

“Byleth, wait—!” Claude calls, but she’s already sprinting away toward a riderless horse wearing black Imperial armor. He starts after her but ends up caught in a fight with an enemy in heavy armor. By the time enough of his arrows have found the weak points in his defense. Byleth is well out of reach. He sees the Sword of the Creator whip out as she engages the Death Knight just as the coughing begins.

It’s a bad one. His worry for her, along with his usual lack of sleep and the heavy exertion of fighting are all combining into the perfect storm. He chokes as blood pours out of his mouth, and chunks of sunflowers splat onto the stone floor. More blood keeps him from taking a proper breath, and a few seconds later he collapses to his knees. Through a haze of pain, he watches Byleth swing at her opponent, then twist out of his reach to swing again.

He tries to breathe in again, but the petals are too thick. There’s too much blood. His golden jacket and sash become splattered with crimson as he fights for oxygen. Byleth lands a strike. An entire sunflower gags him on its way out.

_She’s got him on the ropes, _he thinks with pride. _She’s gonna win._

And he’s going to choke to death on his love for her. It feels like a pretty shitty way to go, but maybe they’ll make a song or an epic poem out of it. That wouldn’t be so bad.

He thinks he hears someone—Lorenz?—shouting his name, but his vision is darkening fast and his ears feel like they’re stuffed with cotton. He collapses forward into a pool of blood and flowers before any of his Deer can reach him.

* * *

Everything is dark. Claude’s senses are pretty good, honed as they have been over a lifetime of fighting for survival, and he can tell—even without being able to see much—that this space is vast. It isn’t cold, it isn’t lonely. It isn’t _anything_, really, which in and of itself is scary enough. It just _is._

He stares out into this darkness, this night without stars, and feels very small and very afraid.

But there is one bit of comfort. A small point of warmth, something he feels might bring him back into the light as long as he doesn’t let go. He feels that warmth squeeze his hand and he tries to squeeze back.

Then he looses even this much sense of self, and everything, including the darkness, disappears.

* * *

.

.

.

.

.

* * *

His eyes open.

Immediately, he wishes they hadn’t. Why the hell is it so bright? He wants to throw his arm over his face to block out some of this offending light, but he only manages to heave it up over his chest before he runs out of steam.

_Water_, he thinks. None comes, probably because he can’t even manage to open his eyes long enough to see if there’s any to be had. He'd recognized enough during his brief glimpse to know he's in the infirmary at Garreg Mach, but that was all. Has he been wounded? He feels as helpless as a newborn. It’s not a good feeling.

“You told me Mahsā would get you out of danger,” says a voice to his right, and his head jerks in that direction even as his heart gives a huge lurch. His eyes land on Byleth.

She looks awful.

Her hair is wild and she’s pale. Her jaw is clenched as though she’s holding back some deep emotion. And her eyes—her eyes are huge and haunted and swimming with unshed tears.

“Byleth?” he croaks.

“You died,” she tells him. Her voice is cool and detached, but her _eyes_—they’re breaking his heart. “We brought you back, Manuela managed it. Thank the goddess the javelins of light had already fallen at that point. If we had been working on you inside the fort, we’d all be dead.”

“Javelins of light?” His brow furrows. “What are you talking about, my friend?”

“They appeared in the sky after the Death Knight escaped. The entire fortress was leveled. There’s nothing left of Fort Merceus anymore.” Byleth pauses and looks down at her clenched hands. Her tightly bunched fists are resting on her knees. “There’s nothing left of Edelgard, either.”

_“What?” _Claude tries to struggle into a somewhat upright position, but he fails. The effort leaves him feeling winded and embarrassed. “How long have I been asleep?”

“Three weeks.” Byleth is staring at him again. “You woke up once before, but not for long. We’ve been feeding you honey and broth. Your recovery will probably take a while.”

He looks up at the ceiling. He doubts he’ll fully recover. His friends saved him this time, but…his disease is going to get the better of him, sooner rather than later.

“So the war is over,” he murmurs, changing the subject.

Byleth sighs. “There are…loose ends. We’re preparing for another march. I’ll explain later. We have other things to discuss.”

He closes his eyes and waits. Then he jumps as her fingers slide into his. Her hand is trembling, and when he opens his eyes again to look at her, a tear is slipping down her cheek. Another fissure opens in his heart as he sees it.

“You were going to die without telling me,” she says, and she sounds anything but detached now. She sounds _broken_. He tries to say something but she stops him.

“When we got you back here, barely alive, Manuela told me about your disease.”

“Ah.” He doesn’t know whether or not he’s glad to hear it. He’ll decide later.

“It was like…waking up,” she continues. “All of a sudden everything just…came together. I looked back with new eyes and realized that I’d—I’d been ignoring something essential. And I was realizing it all too late.”

Her head drops and her hair hides her face from his gaze. He wants to sweep it away and look into her eyes, but his limbs feel _so _heavy.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know—didn’t realize—” She takes a deep breath to steady herself. “When I took a moment to think about it, it seemed so _obvious. _It was like a pane of glass broke and all of a sudden I felt _all _of it. If I were normal, if I felt things the way normal people do, your condition never would have gotten so bad.”

Something is unfurling in Claude’s chest, and it’s a little giddy and makes him feel a little like he’s flying, and his fingers tighten around hers. His pulse is skittering wildly as he asks, “Are you saying…what I think you’re saying?”

Byleth meets his gaze at last. “I love you,” she whispers. “I’m in love with you.”

All of a sudden, he finds strength enough to lurch toward her, tugging on her hand so she’ll lean closer. His other hand tangles in her hair and he guides her mouth down to his, aching with the perfection of it. Their kiss is warm and soft, a homecoming long overdue…but there’s heat underneath. He knows when he’s healed up a little more, that heat will be impossible to resist. But for now, he savors the sweetness.

“I love you,” he tells her, panting for breath against her mouth. “Gods, I’ve loved you for so long.”

“I know.” Byleth’s lips curl just a little, and there’s a hint of mischief in her gaze. “Manuela told me.”

He rolls his eyes, but he’s far too filled with joy to be angry with the healer. Instead, he kisses the corner of Byleth’s lips. “I suppose I’ve got a lot of lost time to make up for.”

She gently pushes him back down into the bed, and he groans when she refuses to come with him. “Rest first,” she commands.

“Oh, _alright._” Then he takes a deep breath, filling his lungs all the way for the first time in…years, perhaps. “So…I’m cured?”

Now Byleth’s smile spreads across her entire face. “Yes,” she says, “you’re cured. No more sunflowers.”

“Byleth,” he says when she begins to straighten up. He knows she can’t sit at his bedside all day, but he has one last thing to tell her before she gets back to work.

“Yes?” she asks, turning back to him and looking truly divine in the sunshine pouring through the window.

“When I’m back on my feet and when this is over…I’m going to marry you,” he tells her. Her eyes light up, crinkling a little in the corners.

“Not if I marry you first,” she replies, cheeks flushing. He grins at her and blows her a kiss, and she slips out of the room with a bounce in her step that he’s never seen before.

* * *

He does marry her, just as soon as things have calmed down to the point where it’s possible. But she _almost_ marries him first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mahsā is a Persian name meaning "like the moon." I know Claude doesn't technically get the white wyvern until the battle at Fort Merceus, but I gave her to him slightly early because I love her so much.


End file.
